“By the united action, sir, of soap and water, needles and thread, scissors, cast-off garments, and Love.”
Sir Richard smiled. Perchance the reader may also smile; nevertheless, this statement embodied probably the whole truth.
When an unkempt, dirty, ragged little savage presents himself, or is presented, at the Refuge, or is “picked up” in the streets, his case is promptly and carefully inquired into. If he seems a suitable character—that is, one who is utterly friendless and parentless, or whose parents are worse than dead to him—he is received into the Home, and the work of transformation—both of body and soul—commences. First he is taken to the lavatory and scrubbed outwardly clean. His elfin locks are cropped close and cleansed. His rags are burned, and a new suit, made by the old women workers, is put upon him, after which, perhaps, he is fed. Then he is sent to a doctor to see that he is internally sound in wind and limb. If passed by the doctor, he receives a brief but important training in the rudiments of knowledge. In all of these various processes Love is the guiding principle of the operator—love to God and love to the boy. He is made to understand, and to feel, that it is in the name of Jesus, for the love of Jesus, and in the spirit of Jesus—not of mere philanthropy—that all this is done, and that his body is cared for chiefly in order that the soul may be won.
Little wonder, then, that a boy or girl, whose past experience has been the tender mercies of the world—and that the roughest part of the world—should become somewhat “respectable,” as Sir Richard put it, under such new and blessed influences.
Suddenly a tiny shriek was heard in the midst of the crowd, and a sweet little voice exclaimed, as if its owner were in great surprise—
“Oh! oh! there is my boy!”
A hearty laugh from the audience greeted this outburst, and poor Di, shrinking down, tried to hide her pretty face on Welland’s ready arm. Her remark was quickly forgotten in the proceedings that followed—but it was true.
There stood, in the midst of the group of boys, little Bobby Frog, with his face washed, his hair cropped and shining, his garments untattered, and himself looking as meek and “respectable” as the best of them. Beside him stood his fast friend Tim Lumpy. Bobby was not, however, one of the emigrant band. Having joined only that very evening, and been cropped, washed, and clothed for the first time, he was there merely as a privileged guest. Tim, also, was only a guest, not having quite attained to the dignity of a full-fledged emigrant at that time.
At the sound of the sweet little voice, Bobby Frog’s meek look was replaced by one of bright intelligence, not unmingled with anxiety, as he tried unavailingly to see the child who had spoken.
We do not propose to give the proceedings of this meeting in detail, interesting though they were. Other matters of importance claim our attention. It will be sufficient to say that mingled with the semi-conversational, pleasantly free-and-easy, intercourse that ensued, there were most interesting short addresses from the lady-superintendents of “The Sailors’ Welcome Home” and of the “Strangers’ Rest,” both of Ratcliff Highway, also from the chief of the Ragged schools in George Yard, and several city missionaries, as well as from city merchants who found time and inclination to traffic in the good things of the life to come as well as in those of the life that now is.